


don't keep your hands to yourself

by aeipathetic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 02, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2017, Vacation, some angst but it's mostly fluff :~)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeipathetic/pseuds/aeipathetic
Summary: Sam’s destiny, Yellow Eyes, Gordon, and all their other problems all come to a head during s2e10, and Sam and Dean decide they need a goddamn break. Dean tries to poke and prod Sam all better, while Sam’s just trying to give them some hard-earned peace.They can both be so dumb about each other.





	don't keep your hands to yourself

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my amazing artist [alexxkah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khalexx/pseuds/khalexx) and her beautiful art for this story which is here on [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788805) and here on [lj](https://alexxkah.livejournal.com/922.html) !
> 
>  
> 
> Transcript from s2e10:  
> DEAN  
> Dude, you ever take off like that again…  
> SAM  
> What? You'll kill me?  
> DEAN  
> That is so not funny.  
> SAM  
> (laughs)  
> All right. All right. So where to next, then?  
> DEAN  
> One word: Amsterdam.  
> SAM  
> Dean!  
> DEAN  
> Come on, man, I hear the coffeeshops don't even serve coffee.  
> SAM  
> I'm not just gonna ditch the job.  
> DEAN  
> Screw the job. Screw it, man, I'm sick of the job anyway. I mean, we don't get paid, we don't get thanked. The only thing we get's bad luck.  
> SAM  
> Well, come on, dude, you're a hunter. I mean, it's what you were meant to do.  
> DEAN  
> Ah, I wasn't meant to do anything, I don't believe in that destiny crap.  
> SAM  
> You mean you don't believe in my destiny.  
> DEAN  
> Yeah, whatever.

“Look, Dean, I've tried running before. I mean, I ran all the way to California and look what happened. You can't run from this. And you can't protect me.”

Sam had meant for that to sound like a stern talking-to, Dad style, but even to his own ears it sounded more like an apology.

Dean turns his head to get his eyes on Sam, lingering there the way he tends to do even though he nearly takes Sam’s head off for doing the same. _Do not drive my car into a goddamn ditch, Sammy._

It lets Sam get a good look at him, the streetlights intermittently lighting the side of his face up all blue and swollen. It’s probably not in half as bad a state as Sam’s face but at least Sam kind of had his beat-down coming. Dean was just collateral damage to Gordon.

"I can try."

God, Dean sounds tired. Run down to the marrow. Sam can fucking relate.

"Thanks for that,” he says and it comes out hoarse.

He feels like a jackass. It’s not that he forgets things are different now, darker, scarier, than when he was a kid, because how could he when it’s _in_ him. (When the headaches could knock him on his ass any moment, and the nightmares keep him up half the night every night, and his own family’s scared of what he might do.)

When he was a kid he could run away every once in while and it would be alright. As long as Dean saw that Sam was missing along with a gun, salt, and cash, he usually let Sam run and return as he needed to. Like a stray cat, or a seasonal flu.

Once a runaway, always a runaway.

Except this time, it's darker times and the stakes are higher and he put his brother in danger.

And he figures he probably can’t fix this screw-up with a hug and a pizza.

"Amsterdam huh?" Sam says, hesitantly.

Dean’s bruised, cut eyebrow twitches hopefully.

"Hey man, if you wanna stay in the game and hunt I'm not gonna hold you back."

Sam laughs. Dean’s walls are so poorly put together these days. The cracks letting everything show.

"You couldn't do that anyway. You look like I could take you down with one arm.”

And he really does. If Sam reached over and took the wheel, Dean would probably just thank him and fall asleep right there with his foot on the gas pedal.

"Hey, I've been up and running for two days chasing your ass,” Dean says, indignant but laying his arm out on the back of the seat, the palm of his hand landing on Sam’s neck, rubbing absent-mindedly. It kind of hurts; Dean’s fingers must’ve nudged into a bad bruise, but it’s nice. Soothing. He lets his head fall back against the seat to trap Dean’s hand there.

Good thing the Impala’s not a stick shift; this would've never worked.

"I already thanked you, what more do you want?" Sam returns, smiling, relaxing into the back-and-forth. He’s waiting for the sleazy _in your pants_ or the almost-joking _some freaking road head every once in a while_ , but instead Dean says, "Want a goddamn vacation, Sammy."

Yeah.

“Okay, Dean.”

It’s not okay, not really. Dean looks like road kill, and Sam’s finger is still twitching on the call button ‘cause Ava hasn’t answered any of his calls yet, and Gordon has probably already escaped police custody, and stabbed through the spinal cord in some parking lot is such a shitty, shitty way to die.

Which, shit, reminds Sam they might actually be in danger right now. He’s gotten so used to that ever-present twitchy fight-or-flight response that he forgot he’s supposed to _act_ on it.

“It’s probably smart to drop off the map for a while, right? You didn’t find out who Gordon’s contact was, did you?” Sam says, hand already back in his pocket for his phone. He should try calling Ava again. It’s weird how she still hasn’t answered him, maybe-

Dean’s fingers tangle in Sam’s hair and tug his head back down to rest on top of his hand again.

“Yeah. Sounds like a plan, Sammy. I’ll call Bobby. That old hermit definitely isn’t Gordon’s snitch. And he’s a crafty son of bitch, too, he’s probably got a demon-proofed beach resort stashed somewhere, right?”

Sam can’t help the frown that’s still on his face. He’s got a bad feeling about this.

Dean pulls on his hair again, harder, kind of painful this time.

“Hey. Your little girlfriend’s fine, Sammy. You got her outta there safe. And you got rid of Gordon,” Dean says, eyes mostly on Sam instead of the road, wide and imploring. “Now it’s time to take care of your brother. Alright?”

Sam huffs out a laugh. Yeah okay. He can do that.

 

It isn’t Amsterdam or a beach resort, but it’s something. Better than highway motels, that’s for sure.

“I’ll bet you 50 dollars Jason Voorhees kills us in our sleep tonight.“ And yeah, it’s a cabin in the woods, but it’s in a clearing and Sam can hear a river babbling somewhere.

“Nah, it’s gonna be faeries. Or trolls.”

“I’m not getting gremlin-snatched, Sammy. It’s death by machete or not at all.”

“I’m sure they’ll let you respectfully decline.”

Inside, there are spider webs everywhere and it kind of smells like a sauna, all that wood baking in the sun. Sigils guard in every corner, and a demon trap watches over the living room from the ceiling. Knowing Bobby, they should be safe from pretty much everything out here.

Sam breathes deep.

And then has a coughing fit choking on dust.

They unpack the weapons and salt the doors and windows and Sam even sets up in the bathroom when Dean’s not looking. As they’re stocking up the kitchen, Dean finds a big jar in the (broken) fridge containing something viscous and extremely gross-looking.

“So this is either 20-year-old marinara sauce or something from a dead person.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course, Dean sees burgundy goo and thinks _food_ and _death._ And of course, he starts messing with it.

“Stop playing with it, Dean, jeez. It might be for some kind of spell.”

Dean ignores him and continues to shake it. Gets it wiggling like pudding. With chunks.

“If you grow a tail or something, I’m not helping you get rid of it.”

Dean isn’t listening to him. Whatever. Let him turn blue or invert his face or something, see if Sam cares.

Dean stretches the jar toward Sam and says, “Smell it.”

“You smell it.”

“No way, Sammy, it’s disgusting.”

“Asshole.”

 

The TV doesn’t work, and Dean slaps Sam’s book out of his hands, calls him a nerd. Then he gets them each a beer and whips out the deck of cards with the seven of spades missing.

Dean starts humming something in the second game and Sam guesses the song title and artist and then Dean just keeps the songs coming. Sam gets most of them right – he’s grown up listening to the same twenty albums of Dean’s after all – and the ones he fails to identify he blames on Dean’s tone deafness.

The humming (and Dean’s yelp when Sam kicks him in the shin for cheating, the bastard) aside, they let the sounds from the forest outside lull them into silence. Cicadas, wind through the trees, no traffic. It’s nice.

It feels like every other night. It feels like they’re going to get up early tomorrow, get coffee and breakfast at a diner, and start on a new case.

A little after sundown, Dean packs away the cards and drags Sam toward the bed. Dean mutters something about ‘little kid bedtime hour’ and Sam jibes back with ‘senior citizen bedtime hour’ but follows without complaint.

Of course, even though Sam is drop-dead tired, sleep won’t come to him. His mind keeps running in circles, thinking about if Ava’s mad at him or something, or if Gordon could’ve already found her somehow; his stream of consciousness lopped off by the memory of that heart-stopping moment when Sam had opened Scott’s closet and made eye contact with a cut-out pair of yellow eyes.

At some point, Dean turns over, still mostly asleep, and wraps an arm around Sam’s chest. Trapped there as he is, he can’t be blamed for eventually falling asleep.

The next morning, Sam wakes up with his face mushed into Dean’s armpit, and he’s so comfortable he’d been drooling in his sleep. Would phase right through the mattress if it let him.

As much as he wants to, he can’t stay where he is though, ‘cause he can’t let Dean know his armpit doesn’t actually gross Sam out anymore. Then Dean would just think up some _truly_ disgusting thing to do to Sam in a fight. It’s a little brother trade secret; always let them think they can one-up you with a really lame move. It’s like when animals play dead in self-defense so they don’t get bit.

Sam rolls over and starts brewing the coffee. Half an hour later, Dean comes alive and they start the day. The first one.

 

It started with the wobbly chairs, but now Dean’s on a spree, jumping from thing to thing to fix.

“Did Bobby say we had to fix up the place? Should I, like, help?”

“Stay away from the tools, Sammy.”

“I could help.”

“Quit messing around with that, you’re gonna break something.”

For all that Dean tries to be a bad boy or a rock star or whatever, he really isn’t the ‘trash the hotel room’-kind of guy. He’s the type who keeps his tools organized and always wants to be of service. And Sam’s not going to mess with a good thing so he finds a project of his own. Once he’s finished _Giovanni’s Room,_ he gets out his notebook and sketches all the sigils from the walls he doesn’t recognize so he can ask Bobby about them next time they see him.

Even though Dean’s deeply involved in his reverse rampage, he still finds time to annoy Sam throughout the day. Poking him with screwdrivers and ruffling greasy hands through his hair. Looking over his shoulder to see what he’s up to, like a dog sniffing pockets searching for treats. Sam doesn’t mind.

 

This was inevitable. Sam should have known this would happen. Never mind that they’re _adults_ now; the second they have the time and energy they just regress right back to being children.

Sam thinks it’s a brother thing. It was never like this with his roommate the first two years at Stanford, even though they were all up in each other’s space as well. He and Jess never even got like this. There was always this veneer of _I like you so I’m not gonna do this even though the look on your face would probably be hilarious._

It’s day three, or four maybe, and they’re just shaving and brushing their teeth when Dean decides to brush hard against his front teeth so that toothpastey spit sprays right in Sam's face. So when Dean’s taking a shower later that day, Sam fills a cup with ice cold water, sneaks up soundlessly, and pours it over Dean. The sound he made is almost worth having to throw out his old faded Budweiser t-shirt ‘cause Dean cut holes over the nipples.

“You should just wear it like that.”

“I’m getting back at you for this.”

“No, really Sammy, that wasn’t even a prank. That was just a public service.”

Like an ass, Dean winks and slaps his butt.

When they were kids, dad used to tell them all the time, ‘Stop while you’re still having fun, boys,’ and it was the most unfair thing in the world back then. Right when Sam was sitting on Dean’s chest, about to squirt shampoo in his face or stuff a sock in his mouth or something – and Dean was going to let Sam do it ‘cause he was bigger back then so he knew he could and would now be justified in making Sam _suffer_ later – but then, suddenly, dad was there to heave Sam off of his brother, grumbling, ‘Remember to stop while it’s still fun, boys.’

It was smart advice. It probably kept a lot of motel rooms intact over the years. A lot of their teeth too, probably. But dad’s not here to be the bigger person for them anymore. Which means Sam is going to have to be that (‘cause Dean definitely won’t). Or he’s going to have to retaliate so creatively and ruthlessly that Dean says uncle and Sam wins.

The jury’s still out. 

 

Dean has hidden his laptop.

Sam was just going to write a reminder to himself somewhere Dean wouldn’t find it to buy glitter and superglue for the car, but then he figured if he already had the computer out he might as well draft an email for Ava.

Well, it’s gone now, and Dean’s the only person with means, motive, and opportunity.

And it can’t be a prank ‘cause it’s Sam’s turn.

The thing is, Sam can’t really confront him about it. It’s _his_ computer, as much as the Impala is Dean’s car, so Dean really can’t just _take_ it. Normally, he never would. Sam has a right to be suspicious here, maybe a little pissed. But he can’t risk starting an argument.

This cabin, this break, it’s rest and restitution. This is a place with no internet connection and no signal and therefore no cases which was supposed to make it problem-free, too.

But they’re problematic people. If they don’t find the problem, and the problem doesn’t find them, they just create one. Sam knows this. That’s why they’re out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere in the first place.

Sam’s just going to have to postpone this fight.

 

Dean’s grunting stupidly in the shower when Sam goes to brush his teeth one morning. Sam figures he’s trying to touch his toes like Sam showed him. Whenever Sam shows Dean he’s good at something, Dean always practices by himself until he can do it too. Big brother pride. Like that summer Sam did a backflip from the edge of some dingy motel pool and Dean got a concussion out of nowhere a couple of days later.

But then Dean moans again and oh, okay, he’s not stretching.

“Are you jacking off in there?” Sam says, ripping the shower curtain aside.

“Yeah. So?”

“I can _hear_ you from the sink, you know.”

Dean nods at Sam’s crotch and smirks, “Little Sammy seems to like what he heard,” and yeah, Sam’s half hard in his boxers. It’s mostly morning wood.

“Just don’t use all the hot water.”  
“Get in here, bitch. We can share.”

“You always hog the spray, jerk,” Sam complains, undressing.

 

 

Dean’s taken his phone, too.

Sam hadn’t slept at all that night. He’d had a headache in the evening, and he’d been acting jittery and nervous enough for Dean to go from side-eyeing him to checking his forehead for a fever. Jaw clenched and hands clammy, Sam had let him, just praying this one wouldn’t come with visions. Thankfully, it turned out to be just a regular old migraine, no premonitions of death or anything, but enough pain to keep him awake.

But now Sam can’t stop thinking. Finally, he’d decided, fuck it, he was going to get his phone, drive off (again) and find a signal, call Ava _(again)_ , and if she didn’t answer this time, he would just have to keep driving till he found her. With Scott, he was too late. He can’t let that happen again.

But the phones are gone. He doesn’t even have the energy to be angry with Dean; he just wishes he’d memorized her number so he could’ve used a payphone.

They fucking agreed on the drive out here that they wouldn’t touch their phones. And now Dean thinks Sam’s going to go back on his word? And yeah, that was kind of what Sam was going to do, but that was _after_ Dean decided not to trust him.

But Sam is not going to be the one to start shit. Not here. He slowly and soundlessly shuts the drawer he’d been rifling through, takes a deep breath.

He has to clear his head.

“Are you going for a run?” Dean groans, barely awake, while Sam’s tying the laces of his sneakers. “What the fuck? I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

“Says the full-time janitor,” says Sam, gesturing at Dean’s toolbox on the floor.

“You know, if I wasn’t a dropout you would’ve called me an engineer. That’s classist, Sammy.”

“Do you even know what that means, Dean?”

“Yeah, I do. I read the paper you did on it in high school.”

Sam can’t help smiling a little. This is why he needs to get out of here for a while. He doesn’t want to be sniping at an adorable Dean with bedhead; he’s not the villain here.

“Hold up, bitch, let me join ya.”

“You better hurry then, if you’re ever gonna catch up with me.”

They emerge from the dense forest just in time to catch the sunrise painting their little clearing golden and orange.

As soon as Sam slows to a stop in front of him, Dean lets himself collapse on the grass, heaving for air. Dean is stronger, but Sam’s been able to outrace him since he was seventeen.

Sam sits down next to him, enjoying the view. After a while, Dean disappears and returns with two chairs, but Sam doesn’t take him up on the invitation.

It is kind of ridiculously beautiful here. Pink streaks through the pale blue of the sky, and the sun is so so bright behind the white clouds. Sam’s still kind of pissed at Dean. But he’s used to that. Hanging out and enjoying himself with Dean while simultaneously being mad at him is not a new thing for Sam. Being brother to a guy like Dean means Sam gets a lot of practice with compartmentalization. Half the time, it’s what keeps them together, but Sam has a feeling it’s going to get them in trouble one day.

Dean’s tying knots on straws of grass, occasionally leaning down to tickle Sam’s bare shin with it, and Sam’s lying on his back, trying to ignore him. Eventually he can’t anymore, and he sits up to bat the straw out of Dean’s hand – the guy just cannot take hint, won’t leave Sam alone for a second; he can’t even go for a run by himself – but Dean’s quick, snatches up Sam’s wrist.

“Come on, Sammy. You keep sitting on the ground like that, and your ass is gonna be black and blue.”

“Don't worry about my ass. It can take it.”

Dean coughs out a laugh.

“Quit being weird, Sammy, come on up here.”

Sam just lies back down, almost taking Dean with him when he still doesn’t let go.

Dean prods at him with his shoe, says, “Is this some kind of mindfulness meditation crap?”

“Jeez, Dean, just shut up for second and enjoy the view, will you?”

And Dean does, for a while.

“It’s cool if it is, you know. I’ve always known you were a yuppie, yoga wouldn’t be a deal-breaker. Might do you some good actually. All the fresh air and some yoga. You know, we could build some bunk beds, make some brochures, and we could turn this place into like. A getaway mental hospital for psychics.“

Sam wrests his arm away.

“Aw, come on, Sammy, that was funny.”

“Yeah, so much funnier than your usual traveling freak show jokes.”

He knows it’s Dean’s way of dealing with it all, like the repressed asshole that he is. But it still stings. 

“What’s up with you, Sammy,” Dean asks, but he doesn’t inflect his voice like it’s a question.

“Nothin’.”

“I get it. You’re still mad at me about what dad said. But you don’t gotta- I’m not keeping anything else from you.”

“Uhm, yeah. You are. My phone and laptop for starters.”

“Sam-“

“Dean.” _No._ Jaw clenching, teeth grinding, Sam just thinks, _no_ , and stands up.

“You wanna take a swing, Sammy? That’s fair, I still owe you that rain check,” Dean says, getting off his seat and taking a step closer, his whole body relaxed like he thinks everything will be cool after a punch or two. Like he thinks Sam will just be able to shrug it all off if Dean bleeds a little.

“I don’t fucking wanna hit you.”

Sam turns to leave, but Dean clutches Sam’s shirt, a few stitches tearing with the force.

“Be mad at me all you want. That’s fine, I deserve it,” Dean says, grip easing and sliding unto Sam’s neck. “But you gotta stick with me on this, Sam. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you on my watch.”

Sam thinks back. _Am I supposed to go Darkside or something?_

“We are so past all that, Dean.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean.”

Dean’s own words replay like they’ve been doing since Sam heard them. _He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy._

“I already said I was done running, Dean. I need you with me, you gotta watch out for me.”

“It’s all I ever goddamn do.” And Dean looks so world-weary, so tired and Sam hates to do this to him, he really does but-

“No Dean, you have to _watch out_ for me. If I change, if I ever turn into something I’m not, you have to promise me you’ll do it.”

Just like that, Dean takes his hands off Sam, and Sam lets him.

“Stop. Don’t even– I don’t wanna hear this, Sam.”

“People keep dying around me. And no matter what you say– no, shut up for a second. No matter what you say, they die ‘cause of choices I make. I didn’t save Jess. I didn’t kill Yellow-Eyes when I had the change and you almost died.

“You know it’s true. That’s why you didn’t tell me what dad said. Because you don’t trust me with this information. Like you think I don’t already know. It’s _in_ me, Dean, how could I not know? I don’t need dad to tell me in order to know there’s something really wrong with me.

“And I know you’re doing your best, but you’re never gonna understand. Not like Ava could, or Scott would’ve. Or like Max did.”

“Sam, listen to yourself! You don’t know these people, okay?”

“I do! We’re all connected, me and Ava and Andy and all the other kids out there. Whether you like it or not, Dean.”

Dean looks pissed. Honestly, Sam’s not sure Dean’s going to let the crying deter him; he might actually hit Sam to shut him up.  
“I’m your brother, Sam. You can’t put this shit on me, you can’t ask me to _kill_ you, and then turn around and trust some- some _strangers_ over your own family. Steal a fucking car and leave in the middle of the night. You can’t just toss me aside like that. You gotta trust me, Sam.”

Dean knew for months before he finally told Sam about his own destiny. Dean is the one who decided not to trust.

“I do trust you. With everything. And that includes trusting you to do what needs to be done. I trust you to follow dad’s orders like always.”

It’s like replaying his childhood. He’s trying to maintain – and he’s been pretty successful at that – but right now the tears just won’t stop coming no matter how hard he tries and underneath it all he’s just so _lonely_ , and he hates that his reaction is to push away the only person he’s still got. But what the hell else is he supposed to do here?

Dean’s staring daggers at Sam but his eyes are wet. Then he turns and walks to the trunk of the Impala and roots around, careless of the neat order.

Finally, he holds up Sam’s computer, shouts, “Here’s your fucking laptop.”

 

Sam can hear Dean playing Zeppelin in the car outside. Can hear the clink of bottles, too. He’s been out there for a long time, and Sam hasn’t tried to bring him back in.

If this is how Dean chooses to cope, Sam can respect that.

It’s not even hard to fall asleep that night, for once, even through the bed’s cold without Dean in it.

 

He must have come to bed at some point, because Sam wakes up nestled under Dean’s arm like nothing’s happened.

All morning, Dean’s mister sunshine, like he is when he’s trying really hard to keep himself together. Like he was right after he’d fixed the car at Bobby’s.

And that’s not the only sign Dean’s regressing. Yesterday, Sam had been worried Dean was going to drive off to find a bar or a liquor store, so that Dean is all hunched over and back to manically repairing electronics is definitely a preferable alternative. Sam lets him be.

“Done!” Dean exclaims, sometime in the afternoon, “Listen up, Sammy. I fixed the TV, which means it’s mine. You try and touch the remote, you get a noogie. If I’m gone and I come back and the news is on, it’s an ass whooping. You got that?”

Dean’s fucking unbelievable sometimes. He’s a freaking three-year-old but a power complex. Soon, he’s going to start peeing on things to claim his territory. If he wasn’t such a softie – which Sam will take 80% credit for – he’d be one of those assholes in high school that pushed Sam into the lockers and threw his books down the hall.

“Sammy?”

Sam sticks out his tongue at him, and Dean’s grin ticks up a couple of notches, so Sam says, “You know, just because you fixed something doesn’t mean you have complete control over said object. That’s called totalitarianism, Dean.”

And Sam is completely aware that intellectualizing his insults for Dean is the mind games version of holding something over his head so a shorter person can’t reach it, but whatever, he can stoop to Dean’s level.

“Pft, you made that up.”

“Didn’t you read my report on it?”

And Dean combs his fingers hard through Sam’s hair and pulls harder at the locks in his nape but lets Sam shove him away easily, landing on the ratty couch. They stay there and binge watch static-y _The Simpsons_ , Dean scratching his fingers over Sam’s scalp in that way that gives him goosebumps, and when it’s long dark outside Dean falls asleep slung over Sam’s torso.

It’s a truce – more based on Sam letting Dean repress the hell out of it instead of pushing him to talk it out than it is based on either’s agreement or forgiveness. But Sam will take it for now.

 

Turns out, Dean repairing the TV wasn’t a fluke. Dean’s going stir crazy, which really wasn’t part of the plan. But Sam can fix this. Dean’s run out of tasks; that’s the problem. Dean thrives with a goal to aim for, and Sam prefers to be the referee in this scenario instead of the actual goalposts or an opposing player. So he has to take charge here and nip this in the bud before Dean starts cooking and uses up all their supplies or starts breaking things just so he can fix them again.

”Hiking? Are you kidding me? I just fixed the TV. Call up one of your surfer dude buddies from California if you wanna go backpacking.”

”What buddies? Everyone thinks I’m a serial killer on the lam, Dean. I’m stuck with you. Besides, it was fun in Blackwater.”

”Oh yeah, real fun. My favorite part was being kidnapped by a wendigo. That was a hoot.”

“Yeah that _was_ fun. My favorite part was when you were rejected by Haley, though.”

“Sammy, you sly dog, you still remember her name.”

“How does that make me sleazy. It’s sleazy to _forget_ her name, Dean. I’m a freaking gentleman.”

“Yeah, you are, baby,” Dean says, pulling Sam in for a kiss. And immediately ruins it by pinching Sam’s ass cheek.

So they go hiking. Not on paths because ostensibly there are none. They just head due south straight through the woods.

The only experience Sam has with hiking is through hunting or being hunted, so it shouldn’t surprise him that this time is different. It would almost be relaxing if it weren’t for the stupid jerk he’s dragging with him.

For hours now, Dean has been slapping Sam sporadically, out of nowhere, only to say ‘mosquito’ or ‘fly’ or ‘bee’ as way of explanation. When Dean stops to pee against a tree, Sam has to dig deep inside himself to not take advantage of the situation and bail with the map and compass.

Finally, when they’ve stopped for an M&M’s slash scenery break, Dean steps – no, stomps – on Sam’s foot and Sam’s had it up to _here_ with him. Before Dean has time to say snake or bear or whatever the fuck, Sam pounces and Dean falls flat with a satisfying, “Oof.”

The thing is, if you take two people who know how to inflict real debilitating damage on others and at the same time socialize them to not want to hurt each other, their wrestling will get really dumb really fast. You get Dean deliberately showing his belly to protect his padded, expendable shoulder ‘cause he knows Sam won’t go for the guts but that he won’t hold back a punch to the shoulder. You get Sam having to shove handfuls of dirt into Dean’s face ‘cause Sam knows the best move from his position would be to put his thumbs in Dean’s eyes.

Also, you get two really dirty overgrown children with nettle stings and twigs down their pants.

“Ugh.”

“Mm hmm,” Dean says, nonsensically smug, “That’s what you get.”

“I call dibs for the first shower.”

“No shower in the world can wash away this kind of dirty, Sam.”

“It might if you used soap. You know what soap is, right?”

“Yeah, it's what's got you smelling all froufrou like vanilla. Come on Sammy, lemme show you how real men get clean.”

Sam shoves at his shoulder for being a jackass, but he also basically told Sam he smelled good, so he’ll take it.

They trail back, headed for the river Sam assumes. Dean keeps looking back every few minutes to make sure Sam’s still right behind him even though he must hear his footsteps.

When they get to the river, they strip down, and Dean glides in like he's part seal.

The water looks colder and murkier than Sam had anticipated. The bank of it is really freaking… gross, too. On cases there’s no time to think; there’s a person that needs saving in the brown, swampy water or the ectoplasm or the haunted chicken coop, so Sam just _goes_. But now Sam has time to think and look and _yuck_.

“Quit pussyfooting around up there, Sammy. Just get in,” Dean goads, as he starts splashing water at Sam. For a second, Sam just instinctually shields his junk from the cold and turns to get out of Dean’s perimeter but Dean would literally never stop making fun of him, so Sam steps unto the tiny little cliff, inhales deeply, and jumps.

The water is ridiculously cold, but the current isn’t very strong, and when Sam rises for breath, he can just about touch the bottom with his toes. But Sam’s got three inches on Dean, so he’s treading water. It’s not often an opportunity like that comes his way, so obviously Sam pushes off the bottom and wraps his arms and weight around Dean.

To his credit, Dean compensates fast.

Sam’s staring. Dean’s warm breath is coming hard and fast right unto Sam’s lips, his mouth sinking below the surface sometimes and coming up sputtering. How his upper lip tugs when he has to strain harder. Sam had expected outrage, or laughter.

“Quit messing with me, Sammy. Give me a kiss.”

Oh. Sam squeezes closer but not that close.

“Quit this, quit that. It's all you ever tell me. Always telling me to quit.”

“But you ain't gonna, are you?”

Sam ducks down, fills his mouth with water, and squirts it right at Dean’s face. And that gets him; finally, Dean’s laughing and pushing and pulling, until they’re in shallower waters.

“By the way, I peed in that water, Sammy.”

Sam is outraged like a good little brother needs to be, hollering and grabbing at Dean, trying to dunk his head underwater. Dean keeps wiggling away, laughing, so Sam bends low, grabs Dean by the thigh and arm, lifts up and gets him in a fireman’s carry over his shoulders. Then he drops him hard on his back, and Dean rises back up from the water already swinging.

Sam’s so fucking happy for a while he forgets about everything that isn’t a wet Dean moving against him and into him, trying to get him in an armlock.

 

“Did you see any fish when we were in the river yesterday?” Dean asks out of nowhere.

“No, why?”

“I’m gonna try to catch some. I’m sick of canned food.”

“You don’t have a fishing rod.”

“I’ll fish your rod.”

“What?”

“Whatever, dude, I’ll make one.”

And Dean does. He ties a line to a branch, attaches the big hooked needle from their first aid kit to the line, and then hides it in a chunk of meat from the dehydrated meals they brought.

It’s a little cool.

The next couple of days, they spend most of their time by the stream.

Sam sits cross-legged next to Dean who’s on his chair, dipping his feet in the current sometimes, and finishes two books and gets grass green patches on his favorite jeans.

In spite of his patience, Dean doesn’t catch anything with his stick, and of course he blames it on Sam scaring them away with his ‘freaky ape feet,’ so Sam snickers at him and shoves his freakishly long toes in Dean’s face.

Dean’s freckles multiply ridiculously under all the sun they get and his hair turns blond at the tips. Sam’s sure he looks different, too.

 

 

The bed is empty when Sam wakes up, heart in his throat and out of breath and nightmare unremembered.

Dean is across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter, looking sheepish and like he’d been waiting for Sam to wake up.

“You were talking about Ava in your sleep,” Dean says, and adds as an afterthought, “Must have been some dream, too. You were kicking me like crazy.”

“Sorry.”

Shaking his head, Dean crosses his arms over his chest, but he just looks at Sam with a frown and his mouth tilted down without saying anything for a long while.

“You remember what dad used to say to us?”

Sam lowers his voice for his best dad impression, growls, “Stop while you’re still having fun, boys.”

Dean smiles wistfully, shaking his head again. Then he draws Sam’s phone from his pocket.

“I’ve been trying to find a signal all morning so we could call this Ava chick again, but no luck.”

On the ride out here, Dean had said, ‘no phones, Sammy, we are officially off duty and on friggin’ vacation.’ Sam averts his eyes from Dean’s, lets them settle on the phone on the table. Guess duty calls.

“We-,” Sam chokes, and Dean’s in motion the second his voice breaks, “We need to find her. And the other ones like us too, if there are others. We need to warn them.”

Dean’s hands drift to Sam’s back and knead into his muscles like they just do that on their own with no conscious prompting from Dean, and Sam lets himself be soothed.

“Slow down, cowboy. Let’s just find your little girlfriend first, make all your dreams come true.”

Fumbling, Sam hooks his fingers in Dean’s waistband.

“This was good though, right? Some weeks off the map, off the job.”

“Yeah, Sammy, it’s was fun while it lasted.”

‘While it lasted.’ As if Dean didn’t go full-on tiger-in-a-cage like, a week in; he wouldn’t have managed longer than-

“How long have we been out here?”

Sam can see Dean think it over, eyes shifting as he counts in his head only to come up empty.

“Huh.”

They dance around each in the kitchen then, making coffee and heating up canned beans, just regular morning stuff. They agree to stay one more night.

“Also, remind me to make fun of your email address once I’ve gotten some food in me.”

Oh right. Dean was on his phone.

“Make fun of Sam for nailing the LSAT after breakfast,” he bitches back.

“Lawboy at Stanford makes you sound like an expensive escort, Sammy.”

 

They don’t do this often but when they do, it usually happens like this and Sam always wonders why they don’t do it all the time. Normally, it’s quick, mostly clothed, and _fun_ in a way Sam doesn’t associate with sex. It almost feels platonic sometimes. Platonic brother-fucking.

But now he’s sucking his way down Dean’s torso, biting at his nipple, going for a hickey on his hip just to get Dean pulling at his hair, and Sam’s so turned on he’s giddy with it.

At Sam’s nudge, Dean spreads his legs up and out, opens right up. Like he wants to give Sam space to work. Like he wants Sam to eat him alive, baring the most vulnerable parts of himself like that.

He sucks Dean off sloppy and wet, suckling softly on the head and pulling off with a pop to trail wet kisses up and down the length. Never takes much of Dean’s dick inside, but licks sweetly over his sensitive circumcision scars. All while Dean pets appreciatively at any part of Sam he can reach.

Whenever Dean starts losing it, rolling his hips to fuck Sam’s mouth like he just can’t help it, Sam ventures down. Laves with his tongue flat and wide on the skin all the way down to Dean’s ass. He has to hold unto Dean’s legs so hard then, to keep him spread wide open for him, ‘cause Dean always gasps and jolts so hard at the first touch to his hole, like Jess used to do when Sam sucked too hard and sudden on her clit. Like Dean’s so sensitive there he can’t stand it and needs to curl up in self-defense. It drives Sam fucking crazy.

To be honest, he gets a little lost in it. Here, in between the beautiful bow of Dean’s legs, those big meaty thighs that Sam can grip as hard as he wants and they won’t bruise ‘cause Dean is sturdier than Sam is strong. With Dean, Sam never has to hold back.

So yeah, he hasn’t exactly been keeping track of time, but it must have been a while ‘cause Dean’s dick is turning a little purple, twitching in the mess of precome and saliva on his abdomen.

“Tease,” Dean gasps. God, Dean’s gotta be _aching_ by now.

“You wanna come?” Sam murmurs into the crease of Dean’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Dean moans, rubbing his foot up and down Sam’s back like _please_ , like _thank you_ , like _love it_.

“Now or later?”

Dean licks his lips, pleading at Sam with his eyes, says, “Whatever you want, Sammy.”

So, naturally, Sam draws it out some more.

Sam sucks a finger into his mouth, makes sure it’s good and wet, and Dean whines so pretty ‘cause he knows what’s about to happen. His hole is already a little loose and wet ‘cause Sam’s tongue has licked so much saliva into it, so his middle finger squeezes in pretty easily. Inside where Dean’s hot and tight and clutching around him, and Sam might be losing it a little too.

Sam starts rubbing, careful and exact, over the nub of Dean’s prostate. There’s no lube, so Sam can’t fingerfuck him like he wants, but this seems to be working for Dean regardless. Dean gears up for forever, torso arching, mouth wide open, and eyes blinking all dazed and slow. He’s fucking beautiful.

When Dean finally comes, shivering and pleased, he shoots all over Sam’s face while Sam’s too busy to be sucking him off, attention hooked by the tremor wracking Dean’s body and the way it makes Dean’s flesh jiggle.

Sam is so fucking close; he’s been humping the mattress all throughout and now he can’t hold back for another second. But above him, Dean regains his senses and pulls himself to sit against the headboard, and Sam comes easily when Dean pulls him into his lap. Dean could make him do just about anything right now.

Dean jerks him off, no teasing and no foreplay, his hand sliding quickly and skillfully with Sam’s precome slicking its way. It makes the wettest, filthiest sound, and Sam comes embarrassingly quickly.

Sam lets all of his weight fall unto his brother.

After a while, Dean grunts, “Fucking heavy, Sam.”

Dean’s come near his mouth would be pretty hot if Dean ate more pineapples and less dark meat, but since he doesn’t, it’s just messy and it’s drying itchily. Dean wipes it off of Sam like he’s five and snot-nosed.

Sam wiggles on top of him, half-heartedly trying to get him going again, but Dean flips them over and says, “That felt real nice, Sammy, but I’m 28. I’m not getting hard again any time soon.”

Then he inserts a sticky finger in Sam’s ear, and the mood is ruined, anyway.

 

The nightmares are really bad that night. Almost corporeal. Like Sam can taste the sulfur and feel the smoke curling in his mouth and crawling down his throat. Blonde hair charring black above him.

Dean doesn’t wake up when Sam jolts to consciousness. Night terrors are not new to the Winchesters, after all.

Sam took a psych class at Stanford, and he’s pretty sure their father had PTSD for a large portion of their childhood. Maybe he never actually got better, though. Maybe he died with it.

Shit. He doesn’t want to think about this crap, this woe-is-me stuff, not in the middle of the night. Not while Dean’s sleeping like a toddler right next to him and can’t tell him to get his shit together, _it’s going to be alright._

Sleep comes to him that night the way a car falls into potholes on a bumpy road. Jarringly, and right back out again.

Finally, at one point, he wakes up fully because Dean scooches up close and rubs up and down his back over his shirt, the fabric of it warming with the friction. Sam wiggles emphatically.

“Are you seriously gonna sleep all day? It’s 1 pm.”

“Hmmm.”

Sam keeps wiggling. Dean finally does as Sam’s asking for and lifts his shirt to rub skin-to-skin.

“You’re a boring son of bitch Sammy, did you know that?”

“I’m so sorry, I try so hard to entertain you at all times,” Sam mumbles into the pillow.

“Well, ya failed, Sam.”

“‘Cause you’re so much fun to be around.”

“At least I’m conscious.”

“That’s the main issue, Dean.”

Sam turns over, slings an arms over Dean’s neck, sloppy and uncoordinated, but Dean’s used to Sam like this. Takes the impact of his big arm no problem, right to the jugular.

“You little shithead.”

“The most fun I ever had was stacking stuff on top of you in your sleep. You remember?”

Dean nods, lets Sam pull him down for a kiss, “Fucker.”

Dean has his work cut out for him that afternoon trying to alternately drag and sweet-talk Sam out of bed since Sam keeps refusing to cooperate, mostly just because he likes seeing Dean sweat for it.

 

Out by the car, duffel bags slung over their shoulders, Dean tosses Sam the keys.

But when Sam turns the ignition, Dean reaches over and turns the key back so the engine goes out. Dean does it one more time before Sam figures out it’s a joke.

“Ha ha, Dean. Funny.”

When Sam finally gets the car rolling, Dean pointedly places his hand on the parking brake.

“You do that and I’ll make sure you fly through the windscreen.”

With a grin on his face, Dean tugs on his seatbelt, “Safety first, brother.”

“False sense of security, Deano. I’mma take you by surprise.”

“I ain’t scared of you, pipsqueak.”

“We’ll see about that.”

And then Sam gets them out of there.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading guys, I hope y’all liked it!  
> comments and kudos are always appreciated, and I’m sure my amazing artist feels the same way!


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